


Blood For Blood

by ariabrook



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Internal Monologue, Other, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 02:24:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2252334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariabrook/pseuds/ariabrook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the death of her family, the female Cousland Warden balances her hatred of Howe with her responsibility to the Grey Wardens. But even her long awaited revenge rings hollow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood For Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little internal monologue fic that I wrote with my Warden in mind. Enjoy :)

For weeks before and years after, she dreamed of killing him. Before the event, they were fantasies, vengeful daydreams created while watching the flames of the fire back at camp, or staring at the canvas of her tent in the dark. She imagined bashing her shield into his face over and over until it swelled with bruises and ran with blood. She imagined breaking every bone in his body until he screamed just as loud as she was sure her little nephew had when he died. She imagined slashing her sword across his throat, or driving it into his chest, or opening his body from navel to collarbone. But always, it ended the same way, with her standing over Arl Rendon Howe’s broken body and whispering, “I win.”

Sometimes, those dreams of justice were all that sustained her. Although she hated to admit it even to herself, sometimes it wasn’t Alistair’s laugh or Leliana’s smile or the barely perceivable softening around Sten’s eyes that kept her going. Sometimes it was the desire for Howe’s death.

Blood should pay for blood, after all, and he had spilled nearly all the blood of her line. Only she remained, she and the faintest hope of her brother, but she couldn’t count on his return. For all she knew, his body had been scattered into fleshy pieces by darkspawn and dragged to the edges of the earth. Hope brought her nothing. Once upon a time it had, but that time belonged to the fairytales her father used to tell her when she was just a girl. Now, both he and those stories were gone, and her own fantasies were far from noble.

She had never wanted any of this. It sounded a horrible, selfish thing to say, even in her head, but she could not deny it. She hadn’t asked for the slaughter of her family, hadn’t wanted the awful responsibility that came with leading a ragtag bunch of adventurers on a quest to save all of Thedas. All she’d really wanted was the chance to explore, to journey to the mountains, and the forest, and Denerim and beyond. At least she’d gotten that wish, though not in the way she’d expected. It would have been much easier to enjoy the world while it’s very existence wasn’t at stake.

Perhaps, if the Cousland line was still alive, she could’ve persuaded her mother to hold off on her marriage for another year or two. She was only twenty five, after all; old for unmarried nobility but young for the formidable warrior that she was. Perhaps she could have made them understand that she didn’t want children, that the arlship would pass to Fergus anyway. Perhaps she could have settled for Ser Gilmore, but perhaps he would have been called to the Wardens anyway, and be leading here in her stead.

She spent so much of her time on what ifs and maybes that often she forgot her duties in the present. It was only Alistair who was able to keep her focused when she’d fall into these periods of contemplating. He’d touch her lightly on the arm or wrist or sometimes, usually when they were alone or in the camp, on the cheek. She’d blink, refocus, and be back with him. But other times she’d glare into space for hours, as if willing Howe to appear and challenge her. It would be quicker and cleaner that way.

As events in Denerim became more troubled and news of Howe reached their party more frequently, her bouts of disconnection became longer. Alistair attempted to snap her out of it, and she, in some part, tried to listen. It had been she who discussed Duncan’s death with him, after all, so why couldn’t he do the same with her? It was a question that both of them asked themselves, and neither could find a definitive answer.

And finally, _finally_ , the universe or the Maker or whoever was out there gave her the revenge she’d so long craved—Howe bleeding out after she pulled her family’s ancestral sword from of his chest. As she stood there, panting from the effort but not quite feeling the effects of the exertion that she’d gone through, she memorized every inch of his face, every little twinge and groan of pain, every single drop of blood that could not ever hope to match the river that he’d taken from her family in greed and envy. Oddly, there was no satisfaction in watching him die. No pity, either. She felt… hollow, perhaps even more hollow than she had after she fled Highever.

There was no time to dwell on it afterward, too much to do with saving Thedas from the Blight and crowning Anora and making one of the most heart-rendering decisions of her life. When Morrigan crept away quietly after the battle was over, she tried not to think about what she’d indirectly brought into the world. Whatever it was, she hoped that Morrigan would treat it better than Flemeth had treated her.

On the first night after she was declared the Hero of Fereldan, she woke up screaming. Visions of killing Howe filled her dreams, except in the dream his body had changed to Oriana’s, then Oren, her mother’s, then her father’s, all mutilated far more than they had been in life. Her sheets were soaked in sweat, and she left bloody scratches in Alistair’s arm as, still half asleep, she dug her fingernails into him.

In the morning, once the nightmare had faded, she cleaned out his wounds and bandaged them, then pressed a kiss to his cheek. But the memory of Howe still lingered.

In the year that followed, the long year of explanations and politics and adventure, of rebuilding and reuniting and refusing, and most of all of healing, she was visited many times by the same dream. Nine nights out of ten, she’d wake shivering and cold or ranting and burning, staring at the darkness of the tent above. In time, she opened up about it, and several tear filled minutes or hours later, Alistair was there to hold her. He had cried about Duncan, after all, had sobbed into her chest one night. Sorrow was not weakness, or so she learned, little by little.

The next year was spent roaming over countrysides and mountains, through little villages where no one knew their names, and that was alright. Once, they made camp in a grove of whispering trees, and spent most of the night tracing out the patterns of stars in the sky and drinking the last of Oghren’s “congratulations on not dying” wine.

And then on the third anniversary of Howe’s death, she slept through the night, and when she awoke to the sight of the beams of the little cottage she and Alistair had constructed, there was a bouquet of flowers and a note at her side.

_Thought you might need this. I’m cooking breakfast, so don’t be surprised if the house is afire. Remember, I love you. (Not just saying that in case I burn the bacon)._

The youngest member of the Cousland line, heir to the teyrnir of Highever, Warden-Commander of Fereldan and hero of that same country, let a smile cross her face, swung her legs out of bed, and rose to join her husband in the kitchen.


End file.
